


Pretty

by AdultDiversion



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 13:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4062274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AdultDiversion/pseuds/AdultDiversion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A conflicted Tormund finds himself drawn to a certain Lord Commander, as they approach Hardhome. I take no responsibility, HBO were asking for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pretty

Jon Snow stands on deck, bracing his gloved hands on the rail, shoulders hunched and dark eyes burning holes into the misty cold beyond the bow, when Tormund first realizes it: the boy is fuckin'  _beautiful_. It’s sudden, unwilled, the recognition of it, welling up beneath his solar plexus in a churning mixture of anger, shame and something else, that Tormund can’t quite name or grasp. As Snow slowly tilts his head, eyeing Tormund, the feeling of this _something_ swells and grows, sickening.

“What are you looking at, pretty crow?” He growls, grabbing his bollocks, attempting a lewd show of strength that looks _just_ as pathetic as it feels, judging by the quirk of Snow's eyebrow.

Inside the Lord Commander’s cabin, minutes later, Tormund supposes “baser instincts” is an apt description for the unnamed  _something_. Because baser instincts are precisely what Snow’s pretty mug inspires, all right, and Tormund kneels in front of the boy, pulling out a smooth, pink cock from black robes, sucking greedily. The lightness of doing it, of taking it, of letting the cock bury in his throat as he noses at the base of dark, curly hair. As if Tormund has ever shagged a man before, a fuckin’ crow, at that.

“Yes,  _yes, fuck_ ,” Snow manages between hiccoughing breaths, looking perfectly betrayed when Tormund grabs his hips, flipping the boy over to sprawl against the table onto which he has been leaning his taut ass. The white flesh parts softly down the middle, ripe as the pout of his plush lips, after Tormund has yanked down the black breeches.

As they go ashore, Tormund is sick with it, sick with desire for this fucking _boy_ , a sworn enemy. A commander of the Night’s Watch, of sixteen summers, a walking intersection of youthful valor and a maesterly, stone-cold gift for compromises, and Tormund knows he's going to follow Snow into the icy pits of this hell, _hell, anywhere_ :

“Do you trust me, Jon Snow?”

“Does that make me a fool?” Says Snow, scanning the gaunt faces of warriors, men and women, teeming before them.

“We are fools together now,” Tormund sighs.

  


\---

  


"We're here to talk," Snow insists, as the Rattleshirts form a circle around their small team. Their chieftain, masked with a human skull of ridiculous size, won't have any of that. Tormund already knows this. 

"Is that right? You and the pretty crow do a lot of talking, Tormund? When you're done talking, do you get down on your knees and suck his co--"

But _this_ , however, is a knowledge Tormund would rather keep to himself. And thus passes the Lord of Bones, as far as he’s concerned. 

It’s almost too easy, wringing that gaudy staff from the Rattleshirt’s hands. It’s so easy, delivering the blow that bends and topples the middle-aged man; easy, sending him crashing into the crusty pathway, face first, and smashing the Lord’s own weapon into his skull. It’s a simple thing, wholly unconflicted, striding over the corpse, aiming for the large tent, telling the other Free Folk: 

"Gather the elders, and let’s talk."

Jon Snow follows right behind him, quiet.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [ tumblr ](http://joblesshumanitiesmajor.tumblr.com/)!


End file.
